Ok, I'm now passing Eating Disorder Recovery 101 with flying colors. I'm back to myself and ready to tackle just about anything (well, food-related, that is). I've branched out and consumed some turkey chili, a whole Kashi vegetable pizza, and even some freaking Wendy's.
I should mention those three things were NOT in one sitting. If they had been, I may need to be in therapy for another kind of eating disorder.
So what possessed me to eat such things? I'll set it up for you...
Wendy's was consumed while in LA's presence. She barely reacted to it, but I chowed down on a grilled chicken wrap and a baked potato with butter as she calmly talked me through other issues that have crept back into my life (related to my mother...shocking). After well over an hour of in-depth discussion and unusual dietitian-client bonding, I pointed out to her that I had just digested some fast food. "I know!" She said. "I was trying not to make a big deal out of it, but I can hardly contain myself right now!". Yeah, the woman was psyched.
The Mr., surprisingly, made the turkey chili. I didn't really question the ingredients because I was so impressed that he finally figured out that we do, in fact, have a kitchen, pots, pans, and utensils. I was previously under the impression that I was the only member of the household aware that we own such things...like a well-kept secret. I took the chili to work today and ate it for lunch, assuming it was fairly "safe" since it was made from ingredients in my own house (and trust me...there isn't much in the house of an ED person that isn't pure, healthy, and clean).
As for the Kashi pizza, that was consumed this evening with a huge glass of wine. I usually only eat half of it, but I was starving after working at the university, working at the gym, and meeting with Dr. Joe. I let my hunger dictate what to eat, and it screamed at me that leftovers were not an option. So I ate it all.
I mean, really...who the f$%k cares? Hell, I work out intensely for more hours than most people sleep in a week. I think I'll live.
Are you sensing a change in attitude here? Yeah, me too. I think I'm almost fixed. Nice work, team.
Being the take-charge kind of girl I am, I told (rather, directed) LA that she needed to call Dr. Joe and spread the good news: that I'm eating again, that I'm practically having a normal relationship with food, and that I'm basically kicking ass. Dr. Joe never seems to believe me, so I felt a LA phone call was in order.
(They sometimes do what I ask to make me feel like I'm the one calling the shots).
LA left Dr. Joe a voicemail today singing my praises. I knew about this. So I waited to see if Dr. Joe would mention the voicemail when I arrived at his office a few hours later.
"Well, hello, M.", says Dr. Joe (and I wait for him to acknowledge my amazing progress), "I had a voicemail from LA today and she said you are doing well with food."
I nodded and waited for more. He just stared at me. Was that really it? That's all I get?
Yep, that was it. What the hell does it take for this guy to realize I'm kicking this eating disorder's ass? Perhaps I need to down a dozen cookies in his presence and claim to love it. Who knows.
But I am getting closer to his four-week goal. I'll hold out until then and rely on Happy LA to keep me motivated. It's more fun to share my successes with her anyhow.
And I should probably stop messing with my therapist, although I thoroughly enjoy the humorous moments that we, at times, sprinkle into this process.
In other "messing with Dr. Joe" news...
To make a long story short, yesterday brought about some moments of extreme emotion. My mom ended up in the hospital again, probably due to her inability to manage the severity of her psychiatric illness and her serious dependence on large doses of prescription (and non-prescription) drugs and medications. Although a relationship between my mother and I can best be described as non-existent, these moments of crisis always throw me for a loop and challenge my strength and ability to stay the hell away from the situation.
In the moment of crisis, I did what I have learned to do: called and left a message for Dr. Joe. I was hoping he would just tell me what to do. Or at least help me to simmer down, as I was running high on adrenaline and ready to go tell everyone in my family (namely my mother) exactly what needed to be done (which I eventually did do...but I will spare you of the details). In the message I left for Dr. Joe, I provided two phone numbers: 1. my cell phone (which he knows) and 2. my direct work line (which he does not know).
In true Dr. Joe fashion, I received a slow-motion voicemail later on in the day. Contrary to my fast-paced, mind-on-overdrive approach to life, Dr. Joe's voicemail went a little like this (and I wish you could hear his voice in this quote):
"Hello, M. It is Dr. Joe returning your phone call. I just want to remind you that I am old. You are young and move very quickly. Therefore I cannot keep up with you and understand some of the messages you leave me. The next time that you leave me a message containing phone numbers, please make sure to articulate each number clearly and slowly so I may fully understand where you can be reached. Now that I have both numbers, I will go ahead and now try to reach you on your cell phone, which is the number with which I am more familiar. Talk to you in a minute..."
Even in my furious, wigged-out state, I just had to laugh at Dr. Joe. I often wonder if the man even has a pulse. Come on, Dr. Joe. I know you can do it...just try to keep up, just this once...
I'm sure he was clutching the arm rests on his chair, bracing himself for the tornado that is me when I finally picked up my cell phone, neglected to even say hello, and blurted out "MymomisinthehospitalandIdon'tknowwhattodoandIdon'twanttogobutfeellikeIhavetoandIwanttogotelleveryonetogotohell."
Hey, I just try to keep the guy's life interesting. And he is trying to keep me calm. I guess it is a mutually beneficial therapist-client relationship.
LA and I are going to tackle cupcakes together in our next Monday morning appointment. Since Dr. Joe refuses to get excited about my current progress, I plan to snap a picture of myself eating a cupcake and send it his way as proof that I am, in fact, kicking ass.
Obtaining a legitimate compliment from Dr. Joe is, obviously, not the main motivation behind getting well at the moment. But I have to admit, the challenge of getting it out of him is tapping right into my competitive nature and is making my efforts just that much more worthwhile.
It is possible, I suppose, that I may be talking so damn fast all the time that he isn't even sure what is going on with my food intake. He may not even know that I have an eating disorder. In fact, he may not have understood a word I've said in the last six months.
I really need to cut back on the Starbucks...
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